


Once Again, With Feeling

by lary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lary/pseuds/lary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh fuck, I hate you.” Sherlock says with feeling, finally feeling something, tries to catch his breath. “Do it harder, for fuck's sake!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Again, With Feeling

 

 

“Oh fuck, I hate you.” Sherlock says with feeling, finally feeling _something_ , tries to catch his breath. “Do it harder, for fuck's sake!”

 

“I hate you too,” Mycroft hisses, pushes back into him. “You're an ungrateful little bitch.”

 

“And you're a fat, lazy-- ahh, bastard.”

 

“Is that so?” Mycroft's hand fists his hair and presses his cheek into the desk, so harshly he has no time to stifle a gasp of surprise. The next thrust rams into him, makes the wooden edge dig sharply into his thighs. “Then how come is it that I always end up doing all the work?”

 

“I'd hardly call this work— ohh.” His voice breaks into incoherent moans as Mycroft changes the angle and makes jolts of pleasure travel up his spine. He can feel himself leaking all over the files he got Mycroft to abandon on his desk.

 

“Next time you want your distraction,” Mycroft growls, his voice wavering slightly as he thrusts in, “you may prepare yourself in advance and meet me for dinner like a civilised person. And then I shall take you home, in my bed, and have you ride my cock until I climax.”

 

“As if-- oh _right there--_ as if you aren't turned on by having me in your office. You, ohh-- you probably couldn't even get it up in your bedroom, not taboo enough--”

 

“Projecting merely serves to make you obvious, little brother.” Mycroft's fingers are tangled tightly in his hair, the nails of his other hand are raking welts on his back, and his teeth leave bruises on his shoulders, on his throat. He'll need his scarf again, but he craves more of the pain, more of Mycroft's possessive touch. “For me it is quite taboo enough to defile your lovely body. Everything else is for your benefit. Not that it can't be delightful, nonetheless.”

 

“Shut up, Mycroft.” He hates how much he sounds like he's begging, but he feels himself unravelling, and yet his stupid, irritating brother sounds detached like he's talking about the weather. It's always like this, only tiniest tells indicating Mycroft's arousal, up until right before his orgasm. And he makes Sherlock lose control so easily. Which is the point, but that doesn't stop him from resenting him for it. “Shut up and fuck me.”

 

“Unlike you, I am quite capable of multitasking.”

 

Sherlock would protest, but Mycroft's palm is suddenly between his shoulder blades, hot and heavy, and he finds himself holding his breath, his face still resting on the wood of the desk even though Mycroft isn't forcing his head down anymore. He knows that signal, knows that Mycroft's had enough of the backtalk. He knows from experience that Mycroft has no compunctions with disentangling himself and kicking Sherlock out, secure in the knowledge that when it comes to this, Sherlock will give in before he does.

 

And this is also the point, this tangle of anger and resentment and desire and need that builds inside him from the moment he submits, twisting and searing until he breaks and surrenders, yells out his pleasure, panting for air as Mycroft keeps fucking into him, urgent now that he's made Sherlock come.

 

“Oh, I hate you. Oh, God, Sherlock--”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes, loses himself, his body loose and pliant for Mycroft's taking. “I know,” he murmurs, but says no more as Mycroft presses the hand on his back down in warning. There are times when words are too much for Mycroft, the knowledge heavy enough in itself. For Sherlock words can only have the opposite effect, clarity and freedom, but Mycroft has always been more terrified of himself.

 

He relishes it when Mycroft crashes over the edge, gasping his name - Sherlock can feel him, pulses of warmth as Mycroft spills his release inside him. He feels his lips pulling into a languid smile, satisfied and content if only for a little while. He knows the numbness will return, but for the moment he's high enough that it can't touch him.

 

Mycroft doesn't waste much time before he pulls out and goes to the toilet in order to make himself presentable. Sherlock smirks as he takes in Mycroft's files, now covered in Sherlock's come. He has some on his shirt, which Mycroft could have bothered to take off, but thankfully his jacket will hide whatever he can't get off.

 

He uses the loo after Mycroft. When he returns, the files are nowhere to be seen, possibly memorised and destroyed by his brother. Sherlock walks to his chair and leans down to press his lips against Mycroft's, who cradles a hand behind his head and kisses him back with more passion than he showed before they got to fucking. He lets go when Sherlock pulls back. His eyes are unreadable, but his fingers clench into a fist briefly before he forces himself to relax. His voice is quiet and low. “I hate you.”

 

Sherlock smiles and kisses him one more time. “I hate you too.”

 

 

 


End file.
